


You Mighta Heard I Run With A Dangerous Crowd

by adjectivebear (HealerAriel)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Friendship, Kink Meme, Mairead probably shouldn't be in a position of authority, Multi, UST, drunk!sex, lots and lots of alcohol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:50:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HealerAriel/pseuds/adjectivebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, five times Anders bonded with the crew at Vigil's Keep, and one time he *ahem* bonded with Nathaniel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Another one for the Kink Meme, which will continue once I bash this spell of writer's block out of my head. My love of Nanders shall not be denied!

Maker’s balls, he’d never been so hungry in his life.

And it had come upon him so suddenly! One moment he was drifting off to sleep without a care in the world, and the next he was wide awake with a burning ache in his stomach as though it were attempting to digest itself. He’d nearly resolved to suffer through it until morning to avoid further incident with the Templars before recalling, with no small amount of delight, that this was not Kinloch Hold but Vigil’s Keep and he, Anders, was a Grey Warden and free to roam about _whenever he damn well pleased_.

So off he went to find something to eat.

The kitchen, at least, was one of the few areas of the keep which held no evidence of the bloody darkspawn invasion that had been put down the night before. The nasty beasties had clearly taken no interest whatsoever in the Vigil’s food supply, for which Anders was mightily grateful as he rummaged through the pantries, nearly swooning at the sheer variety of delicious morsels at his disposal.

He’d already loaded up a plate with bread and jam, sausages, and several different types of cheese when he found himself face-to-face with a ham several times the size of his head. His mouth watered.

“Oh, come to Daddy, you _sexy_  beast!” he moaned, hauling the massive thing onto the counter and rooting around in the drawers for a knife. “You were hiding from me, weren’t you, you naughty girl? That wasn’t very nice; going the right way for a _spanking_ , you are—”

A burst of laughter echoed through the room.

Anders spun around to find the Warden-Commander standing in the doorway, trying with her hand to conceal the smile that was perfectly evident on the rest of her face. Funny, after years of being caught in flagrante delicto by the denizens of the tower, he would have bet that his ability to blush had long since gone the way of the griffons. It turned out that this was not the case.

“Don’t mind me,” the commander said, sounding as though she was only barely managing to keep another round of giggles at bay. “I’ve never seen anyone approach a midnight snack with quite that level of enthusiasm before. It’s wonderful, actually, please go on. I believe there was a ham in need of spanking?”

“That’s not the sort of thing I usually do in front of an audience, love,” Anders purred, remembering only after the words had left his mouth that he was, in fact, addressing his superior.

His married superior.

His married-to-the- _king_ superior.

The vivid contemplation of his imminent execution was interrupted by a second burst of laughter. “Oh, Anders, I knew I was going to like you.”

Still slightly stunned by the lack of any talk of beheading (or hanging, or drawing and quartering; how _did_  the rich and famous get rid of mouthy mages these days, anyway?), Anders could only grin sheepishly as she joined him at the counter. He’d just finished scripting a witty recovery and had opened his mouth to deliver it when an embarrassingly loud growl from his stomach reminded him of his purpose.

The commander laughed again, sympathetically this time, and produced a knife from a butcher’s block that had, naturally, been right in front of him the entire time.

“Sorry,” she said, handing him the blade, which was all the invitation he needed to begin sawing off great chunks of ham and stuffing them into his mouth. “I probably should have mentioned the uncontrollable appetite.”

“S’fine,” Anders managed through a half-chewed mouthful. Really, a tendency toward sudden ravenous hunger positively glowed in comparison to the nightmares, sterility, and thirty-year lifespan she’d warned of when she’d pulled him, the dwarf and the lady knight aside before their Joining, swearing them to secrecy and giving them one last chance to turn back.

She’d looked so surprised when none of them had taken it.

But then, why would they? The dwarf was a drunken madman who lived for battle, and far enough into his middle years that he’d likely be quite old indeed when the taint finally claimed him. The girl, Mhairi, he suspected was just the hero type.

Pity she had to die.

As for him, well, he was a mage. He may have hated the Fade, but it held no horror for him anymore, and thirty years of freedom was paradise when weighed against the Rite of Tranquility, the Aeonar, or both, which was where he’d undoubtedly have been headed once Rylock convinced Greagoir that he’d murdered his escort. And the knowledge that any babe of his would be taken by the Chantry the moment it was born had always been incentive enough to keep him from getting any girls in the family way; being sterile just meant he didn’t have to bother with contraception anymore.

Still, he wasn’t ashamed to admit that being given a choice in the matter had filled him with a certain amount of affection for the woman.

Her lack of comment on his dreadful table manners didn’t hurt, either. The commander leaned against the counter, regarding him with undisguised amusement as he wolfed down his meal. Broad-shouldered and nearly his height, she cut an imposing figure in the heavy plate he’d first seen her in, and he hadn’t given much thought to her appearance beyond it. She didn’t look anywhere near so intimidating in a dressing gown and slippers, and he belatedly took the opportunity to study her.

She was good-looking, it turned out. _Quite_ good-looking in fact, with a pretty face, hips to balance those shoulders, and extremely generous curves all around which, armor or no armor, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed earlier. His instincts as a lecher were clearly slipping. He blamed the year in solitary.

“So, Commander,” he began, forcing his mind to a task somewhat more productive than coming up with every conceivable means of falling face-first into her tits and making it look like an accident. “Er, Your Majesty—”

“Mairead."

“Mairead,” he echoed. “How did the Joining go for—” he floundered for the man’s name, ultimately drawing a blank “—that tall, dark and stern-looking fellow?”

“Oh! Nathaniel,” she supplied. “Nathaniel Howe. He’s fine, still sleeping it off.” She grinned. “I can’t believe it took me so long to recognize him. He and my brother were inseparable when we were younger; you’d think I’d have known him instantly, even after all these years.”

"Are you… sure recruiting him was wise?” Anders asked in what he hoped was a suitably tactful manner to take with one’s commanding officer. “I mean, not to split hairs or anything, but he _did_  tell you to your face that he came here to kill you.”

“He also said he’d changed his mind,” she replied cheerfully.

“Well, sure. But if he changed his mind the once, who’s to say he won’t change it back?”

“Ah, Nate’s a good sort,” she said, dismissing the matter with a wave. She then cocked her head thoughtfully. “Although I suppose it couldn’t hurt to sleep with something heavy in front of my door for a few nights, just in case.”

Anders shrugged, for lack of a better response. His doubts on the matter weren’t entirely allayed, but that didn’t keep him from hoping she was right—for her sake _and_ his own. He had a healthy appreciation for eye-candy in any form, after all, and the raven-haired man certainly qualified, what with those well-muscled shoulders and that impossibly intense silver gaze. It would have been a shame indeed not to have him prettying up the keep.

“Speaking of Howes,” Mairead continued, producing a bottle from one of the cabinets after a bit of rummaging. “The late Arl Rendon seems to have had a particular fondness for embarrassingly high-priced Starkhaven whiskey. And since my usual drinking buddies are taking vengeance on past employers, seeing some magisters about a golem, running the country, and already passed out in the main hall respectively, I had been wondering if you might like to join me in polishing some of it off.”

She waved the bottle tantalizingly in front of his face, and he found himself returning her grin. “I can’t very well turn down an invitation like that, can I?”

Smile widening, she pried the cork from the bottle. She took an experimental sip, then—apparently deciding she liked it—took a longer one, and seemed to take a moment to study him. “So. Serial apostate, huh?”

“The most notorious escape artist the Circle’s had in over a century, if you take the Templars at their word.”

“Well,” she said, handing him the bottle. “Color me intrigued.”


	2. Team

 

It was a trap.

Of _course_ it was a trap, and if he’d had a lick of sense he’d have spotted it from a mile away. It was too convenient, too simple, too _perfect_ to think he could just waltz into an unguarded warehouse, destroy his phylactery, and have done with the Templars for good. But the bait was irresistible, and Rylock knew it. Knew he’d walk right into her grasp.

The bitch knew him entirely too well.

He knew her, too, of course. And under that careful guise of Chantry righteousness, he knew she was gloating, barely holding back a triumphant smirk as she shot down Mairead’s attempt to resolve the situation diplomatically.

“I do not know how you inspire such loyalty, Anders, but it will avail you naught. Now you come with us.”

Anders was touched but not altogether surprised when his commander placed herself squarely in front of him, feet planted and arms crossed, wordlessly daring the Templar to make good on her threat in what was, he thought, a stunningly good impression of a heavily armored mother bear.

No, what surprised him was that Oghren immediately did the same, puffing himself up to look as large and threatening as he could despite standing head and shoulders below everyone else in the room. What was even more surprising was that he was doing quite a good job of it. Less drunk than usual, perhaps? Or far _more_ drunk.

“That’s not going to happen,” Mairead said, dropping the reasonable, queenly veneer for the blunt tone she apparently reserved for enemies, whining mages, and dwarves who refused to set foot in the bathhouse after having repeatedly been asked politely to do so. “The Chantry may supersede the crown, but you and I both know it has no authority over the Grey Wardens. This is _our_ apostate now. We’re rather fond of him.”

“So if you nug-humpers want him, you’re coming through us!”

 Rylock went crimson and mottled and looked as though her head might explode from rage alone, which would probably have been hilarious under different circumstances. “So be it!” she spat.

The uncomfortably familiar sensation of his mana draining away washed over Anders as the Templars drew their weapons and advanced on the Wardens, and for a moment he found himself gaping stupidly at Rylock—she was prepared to _kill_ people just to arrest him? Prepared to kill _him_? He knew he was irritating, but wasn’t that a slight overreaction?—before a hand fisted in the back of his robes, hauling him out of the path of a sword which would have severed his head.

An arrow sprouted from the neck of the Templar wielding said sword.

“A _shred_ of situational awareness, if it’s not too much trouble?” Nathaniel suggested, sending a second arrow into the eye slot of the Templar’s helmet for good measure. Anders flushed, feeling like an idiot, and focused on the task at hand.

He still wasn’t overmuch help, restricted to casting weakly and bludgeoning the remaining Templars with his staff (in which he took a positively indecent amount of pleasure) but his companions picked up the slack, and the fight was over as quickly as it had begun.

The immediate danger having subsided, however, the crushing disappointment set in. His phylactery wasn’t here; for all he knew, it never had been. For all his effort, it was ever beyond his grasp, and the Templars could still track him down whenever and wherever they wished.

Grey Wardens be damned, apparently. He kicked one of the corpses, thinking it might make him feel a little better.

It didn’t.              

“Oh, now, don’t pout,” Mairead chided, the warmth in her voice soothing any sting the words might have carried. “Your phylactery has to be _somewhere_ , it’s just a matter of finding it. We’ll keep looking.”

Anders blinked. “We… we will?”

“Damn right we will!” Oghren said, slapping him on the back with such gusto that it took some doing not to pitch over. Yes, definitely _more_ drunk than usual. “Even if we gotta kill a thousand Templars—”

“ _Oghren._ ”

“Fine, fine. Even if we gotta _non-lethally wound_ a thousand Templars—”

“There you go, mate.”

“We’ll get you your, ah… whatever the blasted thing’s called. You can count on that!”

Anders’ throat felt oddly tight as he looked around at his companions. It would have been a good time to say something charming, and he meant to do exactly that. But for whatever reason, once he finally got his voice to work, all that came out was an embarrassingly quiet “Really?”

Mairead and Oghren grinned brightly and drunkenly, respectively; Nathaniel looked as solemn as ever, but gave a small nod nonetheless. And Anders suddenly found himself overcome with an intense urge to hug each of them as tightly as he could, mediated only by the knowledge that to act on such an impulse toward anyone but Mairead would very likely prove hazardous to his health.

“There you have it!” Oghren slapped him on the back again—which he had thankfully been bracing himself for this time around—and beamed up at him. “Sod the Chantry, boy. You’re a Grey Warden now!”


	3. Multiple Choice

 

 

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“You know you want to.”

“I don’t, actually.”

“Can I guess?”

“Sure.”

"If I guess right, will you tell me?”

 “No,” Anders chuckled, taking another sip of his ale. Undaunted, Mairead frowned, drained her own mug, and studied the mage as though the answer might appear on his forehead if she stared hard enough. Nathaniel rolled his eyes.

“This is inane,” he said.

Mairead shushed him loudly. “I’m _thinking_.”

Nathaniel sighed and turned his attention back to the mug of ale he’d been nursing, pondering the benefits of simply retiring to his quarters.

Really, he had no idea why he hadn’t done so hours ago. Even in the interest of team spirit or what-have-you, there was only so much entertainment to be had by accompanying one’s fellows as they got besotted with drink. But with Oghren peacefully passed out at the far end of the table, Velanna having declined to participate altogether, and Sigrun and all of the newer Wardens having gradually dispersed over the course of the evening, he now found himself alone with Mairead and Anders.

This wouldn’t usually have been a problem in and of itself. Mairead, against all odds, had managed to remain very much the same boisterously cheerful lass who’d followed along at his and Fergus’ heels demanding to be included in their sport, and was still just as hard to dislike, and apart from Anders’ pathological aversion to taking anything seriously, Nathaniel didn’t really mind him. He supposed he’d even begun to like him, or at least to find a certain charm to him during his better moments.

The _problem_ was that when one combined Mairead and Anders with an irresponsible amount of alcohol their conversations veered rapidly toward the idiotic, and tonight was shaping up to be a shining example of that phenomenon.

“Jonathan?” Mairead guessed. Receiving naught but another chuckle for her effort, she tried again. “Thomas? Arthur? William? Peter? Archibald?”

“ _Archibald_?”

“People have been called Archibald,” Mairead said, rather defensively, before rattling off another list of names. And whether it was because the ale was much stronger than usual that night, or simply because he was really that bored, Nathaniel, to his eternal shame, found himself listening along, trying to decide which, if any, of Mairead’s guesses suited the mage.

Anders didn’t look like a Kevin. He didn’t look like a Nigel, a Seamus, or a Patrick, either. Nor was the selection at all improved when Mairead decided that her guesses ought to be a bit more “Anderfels-y” and began throwing out such gems as Lars, Adolf, and Heinrich. All of these conjured images of hulking, brutish men in Nathaniel’s mind, and he dismissed them even more quickly than the others.

“Gunther?”

Anders pulled a face. “If I really look like a Gunther, I shall go to my room and cry.”

Nathaniel had to concur. Surely, even in the Anderfels, even in his infancy, no one could have looked at the handsome mage and thought to name him anything so thoroughly unattractive.

_Handsome?_

The thought had come completely unbidden, and embarrassed him almost as much as if he’d said it aloud.

But that was foolish of him. No, it was a purely objective assessment. Anders _was_ handsome, after all: tall and slender with striking features and golden hair. Naturally, the vain, flippant man was about as far as one could get from Nathaniel’s type, but it would have been silly not to admit that he was handsome.

Objectively.

“Is it Frederick? It’s Frederick, isn’t it?”

“It  _might_ be Frederick,” Anders allowed. “But it’s equally likely that it’s not,” he added quickly, snatching the perceived victory from Mairead’s grasp. She stuck out her tongue.

“Fine, be that way. I’m going to bed,” she announced, wavering a bit as she rose from the table. She took a moment to find her footing and gave them a playful salute before making her slightly wobbly exit.

And in a rational world that would have been the end of it. But Maker help him, now that she’d brought it up, Nathaniel couldn’t stop wondering which of the tens of thousands of names in Thedas belonged to the man across the table. How odd that they’d been comrades in arms for going on six months and he’d never even given it a thought before. How odd that, even as he ran through a list of common names in his head, Anders was still the only thing he could imagine calling the mage.

“Why _do_ you call yourself Anders?” he asked before he could stop himself.

The mage gave him a lopsided grin. “Why shouldn’t I? It’s accurate enough.”

“It’s not a proper name.”

“No, it is, actually. See, when a word starts with a capital letter—”

“You know what I mean,” Nathaniel said, struggling to keep his patience from waning as the mage giggled at his own joke. “You must have a proper name.”

Anders cocked his head, grinning still. “Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why must I have a proper name?”

Ah. He was in one of _those_ moods. Nathaniel valiantly refrained from rolling his eyes and, for some Maker-forsaken reason, pressed on, ignoring how positively thrilled the other man looked that he was willing to play this game.

“ _Everyone_ has a name, mage. I’m simply curious as to why you refuse to tell us yours. Insisting that everyone call you Anders makes about as much sense as if I started going about demanding to be called Fereldan.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I think Anders has a far nicer ring to it than Fereldan.”

“Anders.”

“You see, how nicely that works?”

“ _Anders_.”

“Ever the killjoy, Nate,” the mage sighed, pouting his lips and letting one fingertip idly trace the rim of his mug. “Hmmm… why do I call myself Anders, apart from it being a perfectly valid description of my person, and a rather catchy one at that?”

This time Nathaniel _did_ roll his eyes.

“Maybe,” Anders continued, “I don’t use my given name because I don’t like it. Maybe it’s embarrassing, or maybe it just didn’t have that special flair I was looking for when I started introducing myself to people.”

A drop of ale trickled down the side of Anders’ mug and he caught it with his tongue, honey brown eyes meeting the rogue’s as he traced the droplet’s path back up to the rim far more slowly than could possibly have been necessary. Nathaniel dutifully pretended not to notice, having learned quickly that reacting to Anders when he was being indecent accomplished little beyond giving the mage the satisfaction of confirming that he’d been watching in the first place.

Even so, he must have flushed or shifted awkwardly in his seat, because when Anders finally continued, it was not without the hint of a smirk on his lips.

“Then again, maybe my name is damned near impossible to pronounce by anyone who wasn’t raised in the Anderfels, and I dropped it as a matter of practicality because hearing you Fereldans hacking, gagging, and spitting to try and address me properly got old.”

He paused, making a great show of considering that theory. “ _Or_ maybe the folks at the Circle started calling me Anders because I couldn’t speak any other language when I got there, and by the time I’d learned yours well enough to correct them, the nickname had stuck.”

That was entirely plausible, and it was an answer Nathaniel would have gladly accepted in the name of just dropping the subject and going to sleep. Anders, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself too much to leave it at that.

The man did love the sound of his own voice.

Nathaniel refused to find that quality even remotely endearing.

“It’s also entirely possible that I don’t use my given name because I don’t remember it. Some of us start doing magic quite young, after all,” he reminded when Nathaniel began to protest the absurdity of such an idea. “I could have been taken by the Templars before I was old enough to have formed any lasting memories. And if they didn’t know my name, either—say, because frightened children don’t talk much—then it would stand to reason that I’d be referred to by a defining quality instead.

"It could also be that I never _really_ had a name to begin with,” he said, looking thoughtful. “Maybe my mother was a Circle mage, too, and I was taken away from her before she could give me one, and later rejected the name the Chantry orphanage gave me on principle.”

Nathaniel winced. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that that was what happened when Circle mages had children. He was certain the Chantry had the children’s best interests at heart, but it had always seemed a bit unduly cruel to their parents.

“Or maybe... Maybe it’s not that at all,” Anders said softly, a dark look coming over his features.

The abrupt shift in the mage’s demeanor caught Nathaniel so utterly off-guard that he could do nothing but sit there, blinking, and wonder when this had stopped being a merry little game. Surely he ought to say something, _anything_ to break the gloomy silence that had fallen?

But by the time he’d started to open his mouth, Anders was speaking again, so quietly that Nathaniel had to strain to hear him.

"Maybe I do remember my mother, and the name she gave me. And maybe it’s—” his voice broke. He sighed heavily, and started again. “Maybe it’s ridiculous, or childish, or something, but I just couldn’t stand sharing that name with the man who let the Templars take me away from her.”

The mage drew in a shuddery breath and stared off into a far corner, his eyes quite a bit shinier than normal.

Had the Archdemon itself barged into the keep and begun incinerating people left and right, Nathaniel could not have been at more of a loss for what to do. In his family, feelings had been one of those things you kept to yourself and didn’t bother anyone else with. Someone else’s heartache was not something he was even remotely equipped to deal with.

He cursed Mairead for going to bed when she had. She was good at these things. If she’d stayed just a little longer there would have been hugging and condolences and that little empathy sound women were so good at making, and Anders would have been perfectly cheerful again in no time, rather than staring into that blasted corner looking ready to weep.

“Anders, I…”

He _what_ , exactly? He understood? No—he couldn’t possibly. Nathaniel may not have relished the idea of being named after his own father, but his reasons paled in comparison to such a personal act of betrayal. He was sorry? “Sorry” just seemed woefully insufficient. _Was_ there a right thing to say in this situation?

And for Andraste’s sake, _why_ did that look on Anders’ face make him feel as though there were an iron fist clenched inside his chest?

He gave up waiting for the right words to come and reached across the table to clasp the mage’s hand in his own. The gesture seemed to surprise the other man, but he did not pull his hand away. He even managed a hint of a smile, and gave the rogue’s hand a gentle squeeze in return.

“Ugh. You two aren’t gonna start making out, are you?” Oghren slurred.

In the entire history of Thedas, it was possible that no one had ever gotten up from a table as quickly as Nathaniel and Anders did at that moment.

“It’s late.”

“Very late.”

“I ought to—”

“I should, too.”

“But, er… thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

And Oghren watched the archer and the mage as they fled toward their respective quarters, wondering if he’d missed something. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barring the books, I haven't made a habit of reading supplemental material, so if Word of God _has_ given an official explanation as to why Anders doesn't use his given name, just chalk this one up as an honest mistake and try not to let it take you out of the story too much.


	4. Crowning Glory

 

 

“So, you just totally lack any kind of self-preservation instinct, huh?”

“So it would seem,” Anders admitted sadly. Sigrun sighed and trained her scissors on another distressingly large chunk of his once lovely hair.

“I don’t get it,” the dwarf said. “You and Miss Grouchypants finally get to a point where she decides that you’re—”

“‘Not completely vile after all,’ I believe was the exact wording.”

“And instead of returning the sentiment with a simple ‘Hey, thanks, Velanna, let’s be friends’ like a normal person, _you_ invited her to join you in the broom closet for some—”

“Team-building exercises.”

“And it _really_ never occurred to you that mocking her for trying to be nice was the quickest way for your head to wind up on fire?”

“I can’t help it, I’m _immature_!” Anders wailed as locks of singed blond hair fell to the floor, where Ser Pounce-A-Lot lay in wait. At least one of them was enjoying himself, he thought woefully as the cat attacked the fallen locks, looking as though he’d never had so much fun in his life. “And I know that’s not much of an _excuse_ , per se, but at least I get points for self-awareness, right? And moreover, no matter what _I_ did, how is it fair that my hair be forced to pay the penalty? _Its_ only crime was being shiny, luxurious and a joy to behold!”

“Wow.”

“Shut up, I’m distraught.”

Sigrun sighed again, sounding especially put-upon. “Well, look on the bright side: at least she just lit the ends on fire. You’re only going to lose a couple inches. It’ll grow back out before you know it.”

“Oh. Well. I guess that was nice of her.”

“Yeah. It must be love.”

The rest of the haircut went on in silence, save Ser Pounce-A-Lot’s gleeful meowing and the scrabbling of claws against the floor. True to her word, when Sigrun finally put down the scissors and handed him a looking glass, Anders found that most of his hair had, indeed, remained on his head.

“There, you see? That’s not so bad. You’ll only be able to put the top bit into a ponytail for a while,” she said, pulling his hair back in demonstration, “but I think that would be kind of an alright look for you.”

Anders regarded himself in the looking glass. No. That wasn’t bad at all, really. It would take some getting used to, but she was right, the shorter hair did suit him.

“You’re the best,” he told the dwarf, flashing his most winning smile. She rolled her eyes, grinning nonetheless.

“I know. Now go on. Out of my room, and stop making trouble.”

“I’m still a little traumatized, you know.”

“So?”

“So, can I have a hug?”

“No. Oh, for the—don’t give me those puppy dog eyes!”

She was weakening; it wouldn’t be long now. Anders made his eyes a bit wider and threw in a lip wibble for good measure.

Sigrun crumbled. “Damn it,” she groused, throwing her arms around his neck. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a tremendous pain in the arse?”

“It’s been a daily occurrence for the past twenty-seven years!” Anders said cheerfully.

“Imagine that.” 


End file.
